


Dancing in the Dark

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 18:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19156618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: five times M&S danced in the dark





	1. Beyond the Sea

She takes Mulder’s crutches and helps him sit in the wheelchair. He spins in a circle and laughs.

“Can you get a DUI in one of these?”

“You don’t even have a learner’s permit.”

He stops smiling. “Thanks for doing this, Scully.”

“I couldn’t let you get a cab,” she says and holds his gaze. There’s a look that passes between them, beyond the horrors of the Luther Lee Boggs case. Something has shifted in their partnership, the balance has tipped and she feels like the gap between colleagues and friends has narrowed even more. Mulder told her early on that the quest to find his sister was everything, but his concern for her during this case showed her his heart was capable of more than that. He had softened during this case. And she had hardened. She smiles. “It wouldn’t be fair on the cab driver.”

He laughs again and she takes him to his apartment.

She offers to stay. Tells him the doctor in her wouldn’t be comfortable leaving him alone. It’s a half-truth. The partner in her wants to stay. The friend in her needs to stay.

Sometime in the early hours, she hears him call out. His bedroom door creaks open as she steps out. She sees him, in the strange green light of his living room, on the couch, plastered leg up over the arm. He’s thrashing his arms and his breath is coming in hard, fast spurts. She moves forward, crouching by his side, pressing her palm to his forehead. Feverish. She gets water and by the time she’s back with the glass he’s half-sitting up, struggling to breathe.

“You’re okay, Mulder. Stay there.”

He doesn’t. He sits up and swings his leg around, catching her in the hip. She drops the water, emitting an ‘oof’ as she tries to stop herself falling completely.

“Scully?” He’s lucid again, hair plastered to his face, sweat beads dotting his cheeks and forehead, eyes red-rimmed.

“Lie back down,” she says, but he pushes himself up. She stands with him, feeling the water soak into her socked feet.

“Are you okay?” His voice is raspy against her neck. His hands grip her shoulders as he finds his equilibrium.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

He teeters again and she grabs his hands, stretching the right one out and clutching the left between their bodies. He bends his head to the crook of her neck and they turn in slow circles.


	2. Irresistible

When she wraps her arms around him, clutches him to her, closing the gap, he sees the paradox: Dana Scully is opening up. Revealing herself. She is revealing more than just her emotions and vulnerability. She is revealing that place inside, that beating heart, hidden behind titanium ribs. Nobody claws them open. Nobody.

The ordeal must have been horrific. No matter her training, no matter her stoicism, he knows her spirit would have to be crushed. She is going to have to push herself upright again, inch by fighting inch.

“Let’s get you out of here.” His voice vibrates against the top of her head and her body responds with a shudder.

He insists on staying with her. Once she’s home she reverts to full doctor mode, diagnosing herself with bruising and lacerations, a slightly sprained ankle, no breaks, just muscle pain especially around the shoulder and mild shock. She sits on her sofa with her feet crossed under her. She’s wearing a fluffy baby blue robe and her wet hair is combed back from her face. No make-up. Purplish-red blooms marr her forehead and under her eye. Her shoulders are hunched. He makes her a peppermint tea and she holds it an inch from her face as though she’s letting the steam clean her.

“You should try to get some sleep,” he says but he knows it’s futile. Trauma will burn in her brain every time she closes her eyes. “Or do you want to talk?”

She sips her tea, tiny mouthfuls, like a bird pecking at water. Her feathers have been ruffled, plucked out. She’s fragile, hollow-boned. He wants to scoop her up and place her gently in a nest, protected by soft, warm material.

“You can go,” she says and her voice evaporates like the steam from the tea.

“I know,” he says. “But I want to stay.”

She looks up at him, her lips quirking into a half-pout, as if she’s ready to rebut his statement, but then thinks better of it. She puts the cup down with a clink against the glass top of the table. “Thank you.”

Her words bury themselves in his chest, warm, wanted. She is grateful for his presence. She wants him to stay. Perhaps she even needs him. It feels good. So good. He smiles back at her, laughs actually. She looks puzzled, tiny crinkles cracking the perfect space between her eyebrows.

“What’s so funny?”

How can he explain to her that he’s laughing at his own epiphany that it feels nice to needed? “When I was younger, after…my sister, I used to sit on my bed like you. Just sitting on my feet, staring out of the window at the night sky. I hated it if it was cloudy and I couldn’t see the stars. I used to think I could see her smiling face, you know?” She couldn’t, though. How could she know? “That there was a sort of constellation of Samantha’s face. It made me feel less sad, less scared, I guess. Trying to imagine her out there in the sky, shining.”

She chuffs quietly and, is she, is she crying?

“Sorry,” she says, sniffing and checking her sleeves and pockets for a handkerchief.

He finds one and they stand at the same time. She takes it, dabs her eyes, shaking her wet head, trying to hide away. He can practically see her heart retreating back behind those ribs. He doesn’t want it to go.

There’s a beat, a momentary silence before she sniffs. A bubble in his chest bursts spreading honeyed warmth through his veins. He steps forward, takes her hand, walks her to the window and they look at the night sky. There are clouds. But there are stars too. She leans against his side and he lifts his arm to accommodate her. She’s so weary, he can sense the fatigue in the way her breathing hitches and her body slumps even though she tries to stop it.

“It’s comforting to know they’re always out there, isn’t it?” he says and she does nod, he feels the tiny movement, feels the static of head rubbing against his shirt. She pulls away and he hugs her closer. She sucks in a sharp breath and he realises he’s hurt her, her sore shoulder.

He spins her around so they’re face to face, stars off to the side. She won’t look him in the eye, but no matter. Her arms snake around his waist again and his arms loop over hers as she lays her cheek to his chest. There’s nothing romantic about it, there’s no music, no rhythm, but they move in a circle, an orbit. And when he catches the stars twinkling he feels like there might be a way to keep her heart from disappearing.


	3. Bad Blood

She strides ahead to her car and she can’t work out if she’s still mad at him or suffering from the effects of the drugs. Or both. But he has to run to catch her.

“Scully,” he calls but she doesn’t answer, just blips her car and opens the door. He stops it with his hand she snuffs out air through her nose. She sounds like a freaking horse.

“I…just…did that really happen?”

“I can only confirm my version of events, Mulder.”

“But…Ronnie Strickland, the sheriff, they were…”

“They’ve disappeared and I want to go home. I’m feeling…”

“Light-headed? Strange? Kind of loosely tethered to this world.”

She stops and looks at him. Sometimes she forgets he’s adept at reading people. Sometimes she forgets she’s got emotions. He smiles in that irritatingly arresting way of his. “Yes.”

“Did you want to…”

Whatever he’s about to suggest, she should just put a stop to it. “Probably not, Mulder. I want to go…”

“Home?”

“Yes, home.” She looks away, off to the distance, vague. Where is home?

“Scully?”

“I’m going.” She does. She gets in the car and drives away.

She’s about to draw a bath when she hears him open her door. He didn’t even knock and she hears herself make that loud snorty-breathing thing again. Perhaps if she had hooves she’d scrape them on the floor before launching into him. “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer, just walks in. “I think I’m still drugged.”

“It’s possible,” she says, and finds herself unbuttoning the top of her blouse. He looks right at the V of her collar. She doesn’t actually care. In fact, she wants to unbutton more of her blouse, to shuck off the constraints of the day but he’s in her space, her home and she’s feeling a little like that time they went to Comity and the stars aligned or mis-aligned or whatever happened. Like that. And that’s bad.

“Scully, do you like me?”

She fills the kettle. The plumbing sighs. “What do you mean?”

He hesitates, eyes rising to the ceiling as he searches for the right way to say something even more vague. In the dark, with just the light from the living room he looks all angles and planes, that neck stretched taut, Adam’s apple outlined.

“Do you, do you find me good company?”

“I suppose.” She finds two cups and drops in the teabags. “I mean, I don’t actively dislike you, if that’s what you’re asking.” If he can be obtuse, so can she.

“You liked the sheriff despite his…”

“He didn’t have buck teeth, Mulder.” He was good-looking, in a country sort of way.” She leans against the bench. “He made me feel…”

“Drugged?”

She folds her arms. “He made me feel validated. He listened to my theories.”

“And I don’t?”

He’s really going there. “You…you’re always ready to dismiss them.”

“I am not.” Incredibly, he sounds incredulous. 

“My whole assignment is to debunk your work. I think it’s clear that you feel under no obligation to take what I say and seriously consider it.”

He steps forward. She stiffens. He’s all contradictions: sharp in the strange light but softening with uncertainty; arrogance competing with humility as he closes the space between them. The counter top digs into her back. There’s something utterly compelling about Fox Mulder coming at you like this but it’s entirely too distracting.

As they’re just inches apart, he loses his footing and half-trips, half-slides into her. Crash, bang, wallop, he’s pressing her up against her kitchen counter and she’s bent back like a banana with one palm flat against his chest and the other gripping his shoulder.

His apology is soft, vibrating against her neck and together they right themselves, still moulded along the length of them. He moves back but she goes with him, somehow unable to let go. They dance their awkward waltz until they’re back in the centre of the room and he lets out a small chuckle that blows at the wispy strands of her drying hair.

“Can I ask you something else?”

She’s snug against his warm body and there’s a feeling of security humming through her, rendering her powerless to refuse. Somewhere in a small part of her brain there’s a warning sign, a flag popping up, but she’s become adept at ignoring things in Mulder’s company. It’s another contradiction of their relationship: he’s opened her eyes yet sometimes she thinks she sees less.

She doesn’t answer him, anyhow. Just lets him move her around. Lets him talk.

“Would you…would you, uh. This is hard. Harder than it should be. I haven’t done this…I…” He takes a shuddering breath in and she feels every tremble. “Would you like to go out with me sometime, Scully?”


	4. Folie a Deux

There was a moment when he did consider that his mental health had declined to such a state that he really was imagining things, seeing monsters where only men presided. Although, in this line of work, the men were often the scariest of monsters. But then there was his one in five billion, his sharp-shooting, sceptical saviour, charging in with her determination. What did it mean? Sure, they’re partners, but she hadn’t believed him. And yet.

Where do you take your one in five billion for a thank-you dinner? Are there unwritten rules about this kind of occasion? What are the possibilities to consider. Italian? French? That new Japanese restaurant? He did enjoy the thought of watching Scully eat linguini or escargot or sushi but none of them really reflected what he imagined the moment should be. How big do you have to go to express your deepest gratitude for your partner, for a woman you consider a friend? More than a friend.

He looks out at the night sky. The moon is bright, full. But even the moon seems too small a gesture.

In the end, it comes to him. He’s been looking at it all wrong. It isn’t about dimension or magnitude or show. It isn’t something that anybody else needs to be a part of, or witness. It is about just them.

She’s wearing a simple dress, dark blue with a sheen that adds an extra aspect of fluidity to her movements. She doesn’t ask questions. She just sits in the car and watches the day fade away as they drive.

“We’re here,” he says and pulls into the car park.

The scent of early summer is still hanging in the air. She slips a jacket around her shoulders and he misses the freckles on her skin already. He pops the trunk.

“You’re not going to spray paint Xs on the forest floor, are you?” There’s a gentle lilt in her tone and his chest tightens.

“Are you ready to lose nine minutes again, Agent Scully?” He pulls out the bag.

Her smile is wide. They walk. Occasionally, she chances a glance at him but he keeps his eyes ahead. If he looks at her, he might just scoop her into his arms and kiss her. The anticipation, the ancient trees, the soft leaf litter underfoot, the sun mottling the ground, the brackish scent of this forest is imprinting itself on his skin and making him feel like life is so fleeting that he must act now.

He tells her to wait. There’s a tiny tilt of her head, she presses her lips together, folds her arms but she’s not being the oppositional partner he’s used to; she’s enjoying the secrecy for once, he can tell. It’s in the way her eyes are wider, the way her chest is flushing, the way her teeth are now scraping across her lower lip.

There’s a moment where his stomach clenches; a pang of nerves. Has he pitched this right? Will he do her justice? It’s a date. But it’s…more than that.

When he’s ready he calls her. He found the clearing Squatchin’ but he doesn’t tell her that. He lets her see its magic without the details. It’s perfectly round. Trees bow overhead, like they’re doffing caps in some stately mansion house. The sun is sinking and the floor is spun gold. It’s quiet save for the occasional piping of birdsong. He’s laid out a picnic blanket, sandwiches, little cakes, a bottle of red. And his laptop.

“What is this, Mulder?” She turns a slow circle and in that dress she looks like a starry sky. Midnight Scully. To him, in this moment, she’s as expansive, as mysterious, as glorious.

“This is a date, spooky style.”

“We’re not going to watch scary movies, are we?”

“I brought The Exorcist,” he says, but he’s shaking his head and she smiles, kneels on the rug. “No, I’ve been was just thinking about the way we started. The way I was so…”

“Arrogant?” she supplies and he laughs.

“And here I was searching for the truth in dark and mysterious places, when all I needed was to ask you.”

“I’ve been telling you that for years, Mulder. And yet…” She takes a tiny bite of a chicken sandwich and he watches her mouth for too long and not long enough. “So, you’ve brought me to the forest to, what? Say sorry for being a jerk? How long are you intending this date to last, Mulder?”

He does love a sassy Scully. He could listen to her drag him all night. He turns on the laptop, pours some wine. The sun plunges out of sight and they’re suspended in that bruised light that casts shadows and softens everything.

“I want to show you something.”

“A slide show.”

He nods. “They’re always better in a natural amphitheatre.”

“Mulder,” she says in a playful whine. “Just show me.”

The glass in his hand feels smooth and warm. He takes a sip and leans back as the screen fires up.

There are a series of photos: a sunset, an ocean, a rainforest, a rose with diamond dewdrops in the purple of its petals, a tiger’s face in close up, a mountain capped with the whitest snow, a lightning bolt striking the ground. Then at the end a blank slide. Nothing. Just a black screen.

She is silent as the forest around them. The sky is now filling with stars. He closes the laptop, pours more wine. When she puts down her glass, he takes her hand.

“Scully, those photos were all the things in nature that make me go ‘wow’. But there is one missing.”

“Mulder…” Her whisper is like the shiver of leaves on a breeze.

“I don’t have a photo of you because I keep the best images of you in my mind.” He squeezes her hands in his. “I don’t want to share them. I want to keep you all to myself. The ‘you’ you are here. This version. Not Agent, not Doctor, not Partner. Just you. You really are my one in five billion, Scully. If I told you five billion times, it wouldn’t be enough.”

“Mul…”

“Let me say it, Scully. I’m not trying to make us into ‘us’ but I need you to know how much you mean to me.”

She looks up and he sees the stars reflected in her tears.

“Can I…can I kiss you, Scully?”

She sniffs, cuffs away the tears. “Well, this is a date.”

He leans forward and their lips brush, press, open. It’s an out of body experience, kissing Scully. His heart stretches, fills. They pull apart and she smiles shyly. He takes her hand and pulls her up.

“I’m not usually so bold on first dates, Scully, but did you want to try making an ‘us’?”

“Yes, please.” Her words are tentative, breath-formed, light in his ears. An owl hoots and a gentle breeze shifts through the trees. Forest music.

“Would you care to dance?”

She would, she says. And they sway together like the trees.


	5. Three of a Kind

The plane banks and lands and she finds herself in the bathroom straightening her hair and rubbing her teeth with her finger. She looks tired, pale, so she pinches her cheeks, finds a lip balm in her bag and stares at her reflection. Has she changed? Does he see her differently now that…now that they’ve kissed. God, even saying it sends a thrill through her. She smothers a smile but it’s still pulling at her cheeks when she walks to the arrivals hall.

There’s a buzz, an atmosphere and she breathes it in, its hopefulness. Airports. Scenes of goodbyes, but also hellos. She hasn’t been welcomed by anyone for years. There’s a pit of excitement in her belly, warm, unfurling fronds of…love? Is that the right word? It feels a little bold, but he told her she was his one in five billion, he kissed her. In the forest. He kissed her, she kissed him. The blush flushes her cheeks and chest and she pulls on a strand of hair as she waits. The smell of coffee, the chatter of people, the ever-changing digits on the arrivals board, bags, cases, newspapers tucked under arms, hugs and cries and queues at the rental counter. Her heart is as busy as the airport, pumping in her chest.

She tries to picture his face as he strides across the floor. She imagines his smile broadening as he walks towards her. Would he bend and kiss her cheek? Would he take her bag and her hand? Walk her to the car? She checks her watch. Parking would be a bitch at this time of the day. She buys a strong black coffee and finds a seat, sipping, wondering about the case, still fuming at being played. But the fact that it has led to a kind of ‘reunion’ for her and Mulder is a positive.

After 45 minutes, she calls him. No response. She walks to the taxi rank but doubles back. Just fifteen more minutes. Time is a luxury but surely Mulder warrants that luxury. There’s a book store and she browses the titles, trying to recall last time she read a novel. She picks up Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible and takes it to the check-out. A tale of tragic undoing and reconstruction. She huffs gently as she pays.

She grants Mulder another 30 minutes in the end but he doesn’t show and he doesn’t answer his phone. She takes a taxi.

Her apartment is silent. Still. Empty. She takes a shower but even the warm jets don’t soothe away the feelings of…what? Sadness? Humiliation? It’s not quite that heavy, but it stings. She wraps a towel around her and goes through her skin care regime. She looks tired, bruised eyes, dry skin, frown lines nested between her brows. How did she get here? Tragic undoing and now what? A reconstruction? The book sits on the bedside table and she slips under the sheets and opens it.

The knock is hesitant. Almost inaudible. She reads another paragraph. He knocks again. She knows it’s him. There’s an apology in the rap of his knuckles. There’s probably a pitiful look on his face. Does she want to see it? Does she want to hear his excuse, his reason? She doesn’t put the light on, just wanders to the door with her robe tied tight and her temples tighter.

He’s holding flowers. She doesn’t take them. His mouth is downturned. She doesn’t smile at him. He waits for her to let him pass. She stands with the door handle in her hand, blocking his entry. He moves to one side. Then the other. Then back. He holds up his hands and the cellophane rustles like a dramatic soundtrack to his solo dance. His sigh is a long, slow wheeze of frustration.

“I’m so sorry, Scully. I truly am.” His head ducks forward, through the arch of the frame, over the flowers, so that the white petals of the chrysanthemum stroke his chin. “I give you permission to pluck me out and stick me in cold water.”

It’s impossible to stay mad at him when he’s in this boyish mood. He’s an overgrown child, a six foot kid, but he’s smiling at her, eyes showing her something more than just desperation to come in. There’s a light in them that she is coming to recognise as the light of his heart. He cannot hide it, not even burying his face in a bunch of flowers. This is where the reconstruction begins.

She swipes them out of his grasp, lets him in. He brushes against her as he passes and she catches the scent of him. This is not a man who has been at home doing his personal grooming.

“Where were you, Mulder?”

He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it off the back of a chair. “Not where I should have been.”

There’s a vase over her sink and she reaches up on tiptoes to finger it. It slips further back. From behind her, Mulder chuckles. The sound and scent of him moves closer and then there’s the rasp of his unshaven chin against the side of her neck. He presses another apology into her skin and reaches up to get the vase. He doesn’t move away, instead places it on the counter, then presses his arms either side of her, resting his hands on her hips and his chin on her shoulder. He’s loose, coming undone.

“Are you okay?” she asks and all her anger has dissipated. She knows him. Knows he’s a jerk sometimes but also that he gives so much of himself.

“I’m a jerk,” he says and she laughs.

“What? You’re not supposed to agree.” He pulls away and she misses his warm weight.

“Just because we’ve kissed in the forest, doesn’t mean I have to fawn over you.”

“I’ve just retrieved your finest vase and this is the thanks I get. And may I suggest that you leave it in a more appropriate place next time.”

She shakes her head as she smiles at him. “And just because we’ve kissed in the forest, doesn’t mean you get to tell me how to order my kitchen cupboards.”

“I am merely suggesting that you might want your vases to be more readily reachable in future. You are the most logical person I know, Scully. It makes sense to have the items you use the most right at hand, doesn’t it?”

His hands reach either side of her, supporting him against the edge of the counter. She’s between them, back against the edge. He bends and kisses her lips, softly, apologetically.

“Why would I need my vase closest to…oh…”

His smile is silver starbright. She folds her bottom lip under her teeth. “I’ll set up an account at the local florist in the morning, Scully. You deserve so much more than that sad bunch.” They look round at the drooping stems. “But at two in the morning, options are limited.”

“Where were you, really, Mulder?”

He hangs his head. “Going round in circles with the wrong person.”

“What does that mean?”

He pushes himself back and upright. Jams one fist into the palm of the other. Sighs. “It means that I learnt, not for the first time, that I’d rather be dancing in the dark with you than anybody else.”

The moon is streaming through the slats of the blind casting slanted silver beams across his suit. She moves into him, letting the light stripe across her, binding them as they move slowly together.


End file.
